..................................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Wayne Noone..................................................
Poem
I can't put words to it
how sometimes when I look at you
everything around you fades
and you're all there is
like that time in your red plaid hood
with the snowflakes in your hair
or you sitting on that wall near
the Leister House at Gettysburg
or like yesterday
midst the buzz of running children
and clanking horseshoes I saw you
walking slowly
with your shoes in your hand
the warm breeze blowing your long skirt
and your hair
looking for me or perhaps looking
for nothing at all, and
me watching, seeing
nothing but you.
Dream On Song
Long to be a Berryman,
me, why not? Surely Henry huffed,
and I can too; I drink enough.
Got all the designer drugs,
hell, all he had was gin
and thorazine.
Don't tell me that my cracks
are in the wrong places,
that I haven't the tremolo
of that skinny old crow.
I'll go to Dublin, grow a beard,
you'll all see
if need be, I'll even take
the bridge
sweet Stacia mine.
Barometer
Kenny runs the only Cuban restaurant in Pittsburgh.
He's not Cuban, his wife is.
Draws a large smattering of the downtown
lunch crowd,
all types:
bullshit local politicos and media hacks,
blue collar survivors wheezing
emphysematically and recounting
the glory days of the mills.
Kenny is a barometer
for the state of my own
physical decay.
Stands around six three
and over 300 pounds
with a pasty gray pallor
and deep circles round his eyes,
chain smoking as he works the griddle.
I figure as bad as it gets with me,
Kenny'll still go first.
You can order American or
Cuban food,
so along with kraut loaded
rubens you can get your plantains
and media nocte.
He allows just about anybody in
but occasionally draws the line:
three pachucos dance in wearing
chains and faux leather jackets.
Kenny looks up from the grill,
drops a few ashes on the eggs,
says "Hey Tony, take a hike!
we got no spaghetti!"
The greasers eyes bug out and
they disappear with a finger.
I sit back and sip my Cuban coffee,
listen to the murmur of the black girls.
